


Ashes, Ashes

by thychesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Nursery Rhymes, Pre-Series, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thychesters/pseuds/thychesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean never really was a fan of Ring-a-round the Rosie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes, Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Hah, writing happy things about Supernatural was harder than I thought.  
> Slight language warning throughout.

When he’s four, it’s a stupid little thing and doesn’t really matter all that much. To him the neighbor girls are just weird and he doesn’t need them because he has a newborn baby brother to spend time with.

Why doesn’t he go play with them, Mary asks, saying she’ll sit out on the front porch with Sammy. She promises to keep the two month old in plain sight, so every time Dean turns around he’s greeted by a squeal and pudgy arms flailing about.

July is hot and sticky and muggy and he would much rather be showing Sammy how to play with his army men than listening to these girls sing. But his baby brother seems absolutely delighted if the giggles are anything to go by, and his mother is smiling at the girls’ mother Mrs. Meyer, so he figures he can take on for the team. What’s the point of Ring-a-round the Rosie anyway?

After his bath Dean gives John a weird look when his father chuckles and asks if he had fun playing with the Meyer twins. Dean scrunches his nose up and shakes wet hair in his father’s face (his parents say he should get it cut but he’s adamant and tells them no because he likes it the way it is) and says sure, even though Katie’s kind of gross. He doesn’t mean it in a mean way, but she kind of is. They’d been in the middle of playing when she’d gotten all sneeze-y and stuff and what fun is there in holding hands and spinning around in a circle?

John laughs and says he’ll like girls sooner or later. Dean frowns, says they’re weird, and then asks what posies are.

* * *

When he’s four-going-on-five, he figures he knows what “ashes, ashes, we all fall down” means.

* * *

When he’s nine, he watches Sammy walk out of his kindergarten class, all bright-eyed and big smiles like the first day of school is the best day of his life. He clutches Dean’s hand like he’s supposed and prattles on about how they colored today and introduced themselves and can’t wait to learn how to read could Dean maybe teach him?

Sam gets quieter along the way back to Bobby’s house because he’s starting to run out of things to talk about, so he decides to hum instead. He yelps when Dean tugs his arm really hard and tells him no Sammy, please. Big hazel eyes well up with tears because Dean looks more hurt than mad, and Sammy promises not to sing the song he learned today at school any more.

* * *

When he’s twelve, he salts-and-burns his first corpse and John’s hand on his shoulder feels more like a weight he can’t begin to shoulder than the comfort and pride it’s supposed to.

The bones smells like dirt and charcoal and other things young boys aren’t supposed to know about.

He listens to them crackle and hiss in the heat, but all he can hear is four-year-old Katie Meyer and her sister crooning in his ear.

* * *

When’s he’s sixteen, he watches the victim’s wife muffle her sobs with her palm, and thinks about how Sam would reach across the coffee table, the twelve-year-old a stark contrast from his father and brother in the department of expressing emotions to strangers. Sunlight catches on the band on the third finger of her left hand that probably feels heavier than it’s supposed to, and he thinks about how his mother and father used to have a matching set. Two halves of a whole or something. John must notice too, because he shifts on the sofa and clears his throat.

He’s about to ask the former Mrs. Anderson about her husband before he had his throat shredded when her daughter shrieks from the backyard and then laughs. The sliding glass door leading to the patio is open and through it Dean can hear Lindsay and her friend singing with childish glee.

He doesn’t realize he’s up and moving until the widow tells him _second door_ _on the left_ and he’s on his knees, the girls chanting about the posies he never understood and John’s back in the living room, making up a quick cover about a stomach bug.

* * *

When he’s nineteen, he watches Sam accidentally burn himself helping with dinner and hiss when Dean shoves his hand under the frigid water in the sink.

Dean might mutter something about a rosie and pockets while he’s assessing the reddened heel of his palm, but Sam doesn’t point it out.

* * *

When he’s twenty-two, Sam lets the door slam behind him and John throws an empty bottle at the wall.

Dean hits the ground and he thinks, this, this is how we all fall down.

Later, he’s too drunk to laugh at himself properly and the bench seat of the Impala is so empty it’s suffocating.

* * *

When he’s twenty-six, Sam’s scrambling on his bed screaming, Jess, Jessica, and Dean’s barreling through the front door screaming, Sam, Sammy. His mouth and lungs are raw and taste of smoke, and the baby brother who used to cling to his back claws at instead as he’s manhandled out of the apartment.

They stand against the Impala and suddenly Dean’s four-going-on-five, except this time the bundle of blankets is standing right next to him, face shiny and wet and looking like he’s two breaths away from falling apart.

Ashes, Dean thinks once Sam finally slumps against him, face pressed into the leather jacket that smells of smoke and big brother and home with an open-mouth sob, Ashes crumble and fall apart.

* * *

When he’s twenty-six and a few months, Dean tries to ignore the face Sam pulls when he sees the way his brother reacts to Sari taking Ritchie’s hands and spinning them in a circle with a delighted squeal. Jenny laughs and welcomes the break from having to try to explain that there’s nothing weird going on in their old house aside from what she believes to be rats.

Dean doesn’t outright glare at her because he wouldn’t do that to a kid, but he stiffens, clears his throat and gives Jenny a forced smile, even if she can’t tell it’s fake.

He excuses himself, all but power-walking to the front door and the walls fucking swim around him. This whole case is really not okay, he shouldn’t have listened to Sam, he shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t stand in the kitchen and think no, the table goes over here, the walls aren’t supposed to be that color. Shouldn’t go upstairs, stand in Sari’s room and think, and if you look above you, you’ll see the outline where Mary Winchester burned.

He can barely hear Sam offer a quick apology over the roaring his ears, but he pauses long enough to tell himself in-and-out and all but slams his hands on the cool top of his car.

A weak, choked laugh and he manages to think, well, at least he didn’t throw up in the front yard.

* * *

Mary Winchester’s spirit shows up and there’s a fucking figure on fire in the closet and none of that is remotely okay.

* * *

When he’s twenty-six and a few more months, he realizes that he never told Sam he wanted to be a firefighter. His brother makes that thoughtful sound that he sometimes does, but then the mask on his face starts to feel a bit too tight.

He sheds the gear as soon as can, and there’s a fine dusting of old soot on his palms.

By the time they find John, he just can’t wait to be out of the building and in the Impala, driving far enough away that this place isn’t even a speck in the rear view mirror.

* * *

When he’s twenty-seven, his brother’s face is a wet, anguished mess and there’s a heat licking across his skin that shouldn’t be. Sam asks, wants to know if John said anything to him before, but Dean can’t bring himself to say what just yet, so he tells him no and they go back to watching the pyre in a silence that’s more painful than it should be.

John’s body burns before him and then Dean’s twenty-six, twenty-two, nineteen, sixteen, twelve, nine, four again. He’s watching Sam leave again, watching Jessica burn, listening to Mary hum, listening to these little girls play, sinking under the weight of John’s hand as the bones burn and it’s all too much, too much to handle and there’s nothing he can do about it.

They watch, and they wait, and hours later all that’s left of John Winchester is a smoldering pile of ash and all that’s left of Dean is the broken family he can’t piece back together.

As Sam leads him back to the car he thinks maybe, in some sick way, maybe this is them coming full circle.

* * *

When he’s twenty-seven, he’s wandering through the Pierpoint Inn trying to find Susan and some concrete information to work with when he approaches the room labeled “Staff.”

Tyler’s in there with Maggie chanting in the way only little girls can and he’s barely got time to wrench open the door to the room he’s sharing with his brother when he barrels into Sam’s chest.

He can’t wait to leave, and once they do he speeds across the state line as soon as physically possible and probably gives them both whiplash.

Sam’s asking him to slow down, calm down, pull over or something dude come on, what are you doing, and his cast rattles against the window when the Impala jerks onto the shoulder.

Doors slam and Dean’s fuming, because everything else has been too much and then Sam had to go and get drunk and then have him make promises and fuck, what the hell?

And then John’s telling him things Dean shouldn’t know, shouldn’t have to swear to, and then John’s burning and his throat is clogged with ashes and he’s drowning and everyone’s just asking too much, way too much.

A hand presses against his arm and Sam’s next to him, asking Dean, what?

Dean gets pissed and explodes and, says it’s a song about the Bubonic Plague. The fucking plague, man, who does that? Who teaches kids to sing about it, let alone encourage it?

Dean, Sam tries to say.

Who does that, Sam? Tell me, who does that? Who sings about fire and ashes and shit like that and thinks it’s okay? Who teaches kids to sing about death and ashes, I mean who does that?

And then Sam gets it. Oh shit does Sam get it.

But Dean can’t stop, can’t hold it back after all these years and he’s lucky he’s not throwing punches.

It’s a song about the plague, about people dying and burning bodies and how is that okay, Sam? Tell me, how is that okay? Ashes, ashes, Dean mocks. Jesus Christ.

Maybe it’s like that “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” bullshit, but Dean can’t figure out which one irritates him more at the moment. He doesn’t know when he reached for him, but now he’s got a fistful of Sam’s shirt and his brother stumbles at first but then his hands latch onto that jacket that smells like leather and home.

Dean, Sam tries again, Dean.

But then everything dies down, the smoke starting to clear away and Dean’s done, Dean’s just done. He relinquishes his hold, all but shoves Sam and away and tells him whatever, get in the car.

The Impala rumbles beneath him and AC/DC blares loud enough to burst his eardrums, but Katie Meyer’s still singing, Mary’s still laughing, Sam’s still crying, John’s still trying to apologize and there’s this heavy, heavy weight that just won’t go away.

* * *

Ashes! Ashes!

We all fall down.

We all fall down.


End file.
